Wrong
by Abigail-Nicole
Summary: He did things that were wrong, now, things she knew were wrong because they hurt everyone and helped no one. But she kept silent. She had to.


**

Wrong

**

She had believed in right and wrong, a long time ago.

She had believed that things were either _wrong_ or _right_, and that it was possible to choose between them. She hadn't known about _corruption,_ or _greed_, or _power_. She had believed that you could make a choice, a choice between _right_ and _wrong_ and that your choice would be the _right_ one, and that all the _right_ decisions would make all things _right_ and everyone would be happy. She knew the _wrong_ decisions because they made everything _wrong_ and made everyone unhapy, or worse, hurt someone. 

Things had blurred, after the first battle.

He had done what she thought was _wrong_, done things to the supporters of the Dark Lord that still gave her nightmares, done it with a grim determination in his eyes that frightened her, and a fire burning inside of them that made her shiver. He had done things that she knew were _wrong_, but everyone had said they were _right_ because they had been done to the _wrong_ people, the bad people. And she had went along with it.

But then things had become even more _wrong_. He had done things against the Dark Lord that were not _right_ at all, and were things that the Dark Lord might have done, and it was then that she had first heard the word that chilled her bones: _corruption._ He was being _corrupted_ by _power_, they whispered in the darkness of the inns after all the lights were dim, when she had taken them drinks and listened to half-snatches of conversation with fear in her heart, and she knew they were right. But everyone still said he was a _hero_, and that the Dark Lord was the _villian_.

As if it made a difference, after a while.

He had started to say things that were very _wrong_ to her, saying things like we must use his own methods against him, saying things like we must attack their families the way they attacked ours, things that were not quite _wrong_ and not quite _right_ and somwhere closer to the other end. And she began to become afraid of him, but he had coerced her gently, with smiles and eyes that burned brilliant green, with soft kisses and soft touches, and she had been silent and gone along. But the good people in the inns whispered, whispered that _revenge_ was not the way this should be, and that we should fight them with honor instead of _cheating_ with their own dirty tricks. She knew cheating was _wrong_, but the crowds still praised him as a _hero._ So she kept silent.

She tried to talk to him, once, tried to tell him that this was _wrong_ and that he was above that, that he should be doing the _right_ thing instead of what he was doing. He looked at her with a cold stare and gold her not to be silly, that he was doing the _right_ thing and those people were the _bad_ people and they were the _good_ people, with the air of one explaining things to a five-year-old. If she thoought he was _wrong_, he said, maybe she was really one of the _bad_ people.

She had been frightened by that. But he had smiled, that narrow-eyed, cool sharp smile, and she had not said anything. And people still said he was _right_ and the _hero_, and that they were _wrong_ and the _villians_, but the whispers in the inns grew and the late night meetings grew longer and lengthier as the good people told her their fears over glasses of ale she brought them. And she was scared of the _bad_ people, but she had begun to fear the _good_ people a little bit more.

We can't trust anyone not sworn to us, he had said. We have to make sure everyone is loyal, and that no spies can slip through. We have to interrogate everyone, he had said, and they had acted, but it had been mostly out of fear. He had started to experiment with some of the things the _bad_ people did, and she would tell him that they were _wrong,_ but he would only say that he was using the _enemy's_ weapon against them. She had told him that he was becoming the Dark Lord.

He had brought her out before the people, then, hatred shining in his eyes, telling them that she was against them, that she was one of the _bad_ people, and she was _wrong_ and she needed to be locked away. She had protested and begged, and only then did he allow her to hide away from them, his devoted mob. And deep in her heart, she knew that she was _right_ and he was _wrong_, but somehow it didn't matter as much as staying alive.

He had become stranger, then, a stranger to her, a stranger with burning green eyes and a pale face, his skin as pale as the Dark Lord's with the scar on his forehead, the scar that was on the banners across the world as the crusade against the _enemy_. She didn't know quite who the _enemy_ was, and no one could tell her, but she didn't dare ask him. He would say that they must go after the _enemy_, the _bad_ people, and that they must attack them before they could strike back. Nevermind the fact that all those with marks on their arms had been killed, that there were none left, that the Dark Lord was in hiding with no followers left and the dark creatures had been destroyed. We must destroy the _enemy_, for they are _wrong_ and they are _bad._

People didn't cheer for him as loudly, then, and people started to look at her differently, and the meetings late at night had become longer but fewer, as the last few _good_ people disappeared, picked off by his mob. He began to look at her with suspicion brewing in his eyes, and he didn't smile now, not at her or at anyone else. He was always scowling. But people did as he said, for he was _right_ and the _hero_, and she was confined inside more. 

She wore pretty things to please him, and these days when he visited her he looked like the Dark Lord, eyes of green like a cat's, the one mark on his forehead burning brighter in his quest for _justice_ and _freedom_ and _good_. And she knew in her heart that he was _wrong_, now, and she looked at him with dead eyes that were empty of all emotion. It didn't matter to her much, anymore, for he was _wrong_.

But he had _won._

And the winner was always right.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Don't own the characters, JK does. Enjoy this scary piece of future-scene-scary-ness.


End file.
